


Walking Natural

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Convenient Timing, Crossover, Drabble, Gen, Hunters, Hunting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Might become a series, More tags to be added, Zombie attack, but Dean doesn't make the distinction, herds, john winchester and negan are different people, mistaken identity (?), need more stories like this, rebar is a great weapon, saviors, things that go bump in the night - Freeform, where is sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 14:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Supernatural and The Walking Dead crossover, drabble!A Winchester wakes up in a strange place.





	Walking Natural

 

It hurt. It ached. Every shift, every slight motion. Face down and breathing in dust, the ground tasted thick with iron, dried blood and dirt and a lifetime of decay walked over and compressed into the earth. His eyes were closed, palms down and feeling the cold ground beneath, fingers dipping into unsettled debris. A slow exhale preceding a stifled inhale. Breathing. Each breath tasted foul, toxic. Waste.

Lashes lift- God, even his eyes feel bruised- to reveal slits of green. His view is limited; he isn't ready to pull himself up just yet, not with how sore the entirety of his body is, feeling as if he'd dropped out of the sky or been hit with a car or thrown into a brick wall by a poltergeist. His legs move, bend at the knees just a little, and the new position eases some of the pain in his back. This slight relief is almost enough to have him get up. But first, he opens his eyes wider and scans what he can from his current vantage point. He pricks his ears and listens for any telltale sound that might lend him a hint of where he is.

There's nothing. Even the wind is dead.

Cautious to the world around him and equally mindful of the strain on his body, he presses the heels of his hands into the dirt, braces his knees and lifts himself up. Finally, he gets his legs under him manages to stand. The feeling of pins and needles shoots through him, tingling, annoying, but he finds that he's not hurt quite as bad as he initially thought. Standing is okay. He flexes his fingers and raises his arms to stretch, cracks his neck, arches his back until his spine pops back into proper alignment. Just like that, he feels significantly better, meaning that he must've been laying there for awhile, long enough for all his joints to stiffen.

Things appear to be looking up, until he fully takes in the world around him. It's empty, devoid of any sign of life. Buildings are dilapidated and vandalized cars are left seemingly abandoned and vulnerable to rust.

It makes him think of Baby. The Impala. Where she might be, versus where he is now. 

He's not sure where he is or how he got there. Last he recalls, he and his brother were cracking open a couple of cold ones and digging into some new-age lore, sifting through truth and bullshit. Now, his brother is nowhere in sight, and the world he's in seems rather unforgiving... judging by the nearby corpses on the ground, half-skeletal with their heads bashed in. 

The sight is unpleasant but it's the stench that really gets him; he's defiled graves with varying degrees of freshness that hadn't smelled as bad.

He takes a moment to wonder what killed them, what weapon and how much force went into smashing their heads in, if they were humans or monsters, and why no decent being buried them or at least bothered with a salt-and-burn. He doesn't have long to ponder before a strange sound catches his attention: a scraggly, throaty growl that might be mixed with a dry and achy moan. Some sick and horrific sound befitting a horror film. He looks, green eyes seeking and finding their target.

And it's a textbook zombie, if he's ever seen one. Slow, jaunty walking, that awful smell and haggard sound. It looks rotten, flesh drooping from the pull of gravity multiplied by the span of decay.

His first thought is to gank the sonofabitch; his second thought is that he's unarmed, completely weaponless; his third thought is that it's getting awfully close, and behind it, straying some odd feet behind, are others. Two and three and four- there's a growing herd of them.

Out of instinct, he takes a step back, then consciously stands his ground and pulls his hands into tight fists. 

-Waking up in a strange place with no memory of how he got there, then greeted by walking corpses. Just another day in the life of a hunter.

He throws his fist into the temple of the nearest zombie and feels the rotting flesh and bone fissure on impact. His knuckles reel into what's left of the brain matter. Zombie Number One seizes and drops. The next zombies to come- they come two at a time, and they aren't as rotten as the first. When his fists make contact, bones crack but the damage isn't great enough to drop them. Their mouths move, teeth gnawing at air and trying to bite whatever they can, cold dead hands grabbing at the hunter's leather jacket and pulling him with more strength than he would have credited. He punches one, elbows another, pulls his foot up and kicks- but he's surrounded. Throwing all his weight back lands him on the ground but also gains himself enough distance to avoid a set of nasty chompers. Scrambling backwards and getting to his feet once more, he looks around for a weapon and grabs the first workable object his eyes manage to land on. 

His own callous fingers wrap around a cold cylinder of steel. He hefts up a length of rebar and bashes into the juncture between the neck and shoulder of a womanly corpse; it throws her off balance and when she lists to the side he rounds her with a second hit that splits her head open and causes her to fall.

He quickly grasps that headshots are the key to taking them down, and he dispatches another two.

"Bring it on, you dead freaks!" he barks the words more than he says them, it's a taunt and a command just as much as it is one-sided banter. 

The herd grows even larger, alarmingly, more approaching, bodies dropping. It's the one already on the ground, crawling and gurgling wetly, that takes him by surprise as it grabs his leg and pulls his attention off of the amassing horde. He jerks his leg back and slams it forward, trying to dislodge the grip and kick the crawling corpse in one swift motion; he's successful as the hand slips and the jaw is stripped from a rotting face.

The rebar comes up again, ready for another swing, and this time he follows through, fast and hard with a downward swipe. The action repeats, and he slows- but doesn't cease- when he hears a melodic whistle.

His eyes veer off to the side to catch sight of the whistler, and it appears human enough: a sentient silhouette backlit by the sun and flanked by what appears to be a small army of his own.

_"Aww, shit. Look at this little piggy out here all alone, crank-yankin' a few dead pricks like a kid in cleats stomping on a pile of kittens."_

Those words and that voice. If it's meant to be funny, Dean isn't laughing. He rams the rebar upwards through the soft part of the throat and into the brain of a rather stout zombie, but his eyes keep flickering to the newcomers, and only one word manages to leave his mouth. 

"Dad?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is non-profit fanfiction; I have no ownership ties to either franchise. Credit to the creators.  
> -this might become a mini series of drabbles. If so, it will likely have Dean with Negan and Sam with Rick.
> 
> It's also a new literary venue for me, so feedback is appreciated.


End file.
